


Under Thick Cover

by Hambone



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting, traitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2477030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pharma was not the only thing kepping the DJD back. Ambulon finds himself at the mercy of what is left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Thick Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Commission fic for abucketofprotons on my Tumblr. You can find information for my commissions there as they are still open. This is pretty dang nasty so stay back if you don't like what you see in the tags!!   
> Enjoy!

Fear is an exhausting emotion. It heightens sensitivity, making smaller things seem enormous and bundling every upcoming event and obligation into one massive mountain of responsibility, a sharp and painful pill to swallow. It both leaves the body and mind tired beyond belief and prevents us from getting the rest needed to replenish those things, a constant and weighty blend of physical and mental anguish that cannot be suppressed or dampened by rational thinking. The line between reality and the potential hells it predicts for you blurs so completely eventually that one cannot be told from the other.

Ambulon was scared. It was a constant chill in his struts, as if a hand were curled around his very spark. He had expected it to fade after a while, and it certainly felt as though it had been one, but if anything the fear had grown in him, as if it was wearing him down and filling in the parts it had eaten out. Perhaps that was why no one had noticed. That and nobody cared to even look.

It had not been long since this nightmare had begun. Delphi was not far away, less than a solar cycle having passed since they’d left it. But without the stability of an everyday job, without the mediation of their boss Pharma, there had been a shift between them. A shift within First Aid.

_Nobody will believe you._

Ambulon looked away from Ratchet’s lecture on properly back checking a patient. He knew how to do it right, had for a long time now, but he kept slipping up. Not badly, of course, not enough to hurt someone, but Ratchet had noticed and was becoming coarse with him. His thighs itched, and he kept rubbing his palms against them nervously. Of course this only served to scratch more of his paint off, and Ratchet eyed the growing pile of flakes around his feet with tired distain.

“Alight, well,” he muttered, “I suppose that’s enough for now. Maybe you should take some time off.”

The moment the words left his mouth Ambulon could not help but jerk his helm up, optics widening a bit. He tried to speak and then thought better of it, but Ratchet noticed anyways and raised a quizzical brow. Choosing to look awkward rather than lie, Ambulon turned away, shrugging as if to push away his momentary lapse in control.

“Uhm, I’d rather not, if that’s alright with you.”

Ratchet scoffed.

“It most certainly is not. You need a break. You’ve been in here day in and day out for the past lunar cycle and it shows in your work.”

Ambulon winced, still unable to meet his gaze.

“I-”

“Ah-ah-ah!”

Ratchet set down his clipboard, arms akimbo.

“Personally I wouldn’t care if you ran yourself ragged but when it starts to affect the patients we have a problem. Get some rest and don’t show up here again until you can work like you mean it.”

It may as well have been a death sentence. Ambulon stammered a bit but Ratchet had already turned his back and was marching over to where Rodimus sat twiddling what was left of his thumbs after some halfcocked plan had gone sour and pretending not to watch them scuffle. There was no arguing with the Chief Medical Officer, not when it was about business.

For a moment he felt the urge to run forward, grab Ratchet by the shoulders and impress upon him the importance of staying out of his room right now, that he needed to work because it was the only thing keeping him sane and he couldn’t bear another klik alone with his roommate- he caught himself shivering, fists balled so tight the blunted ends of his fingers were denting painfully into his palm. Ratchet whacked Rodimus across the head with whatever tool he was holding, making a snide comment about responsibility and common sense. Mainframe snoozed with his leg up, back to the room. No one was paying attention. No one could help him.

First Aid was waiting for him.

“Why are you back?” His voice, normally so soft and tentative, somehow managed to carry a lance of venom that cut right into Ambulon’s spark, “how did you slag things up this time?”

Pressing his back against the door, Ambulon, reset his vocalizer carefully.

“I- I didn’t. Ratchet wanted me to get some rest.”

There was a small edge of hopefulness in his tone that First Aid picked up on and blunted gleefully.

“Yeah, I’m sure he did. Because you fragged something up.”

Sliding off the berth with a graceful ease that set Ambulon’s teeth on edge, First Aid slunk over to him. He moved as if on another plain, one moment cocking a hip in the corner and the next directly in front of him, a hand grasping his throat so harshly that Ambulon stumbled back into the door.

“You’re always fragging stuff up, aren’t you?”

Taking the hidden queue, Ambulon nodded as best he could, murmuring an affirmative. First Aid’s visor flared.

“What was that? Speak a little louder.”

Resetting his vocalizer, Ambulon stared at him. He had done his best, back on Delphi. He had worked hard and put in extra time and effort, and the patients liked him, when they were aware enough of their surroundings to like anything. Pharma had been rough with him but he was that way with everyone, even perfect little First Aid.

He could not have expected things to go the way they had. First Aid had rounded on him practically the moment they were first left alone on the Lost Light, a fist in his gut silencing all complaints while he laid out the new law. First Aid was, in his own phrasing, a traitor. He was working for the Decepticons. He was now, as he explained it, in total control of Ambulon, who was a weak, miserable turncoat with shoddy paint and weak constitution and whom nobody would ever, ever believe. It was true. Ambulon himself had once been a Decepticon, and not a shiny pillar of faith like Drift had been, but a lowly experiment gone wrong. First Aid was, as far as everyone else knew, a model employee and sweet fingered medic, careful and a little light headed at times, with some odd but innocent quirks. He was also the next chief medical officer. Ambulon was hardly managing to keep his flecks of itchy new paint in line.

“I said you’re right,” he wheezed, fear making his voice hoarse, “I’m always f-fragging stuff up.”

“Damn right,” said First Aid, the words sounding laughably hard in his tongue, but experience had taught Ambulon to keep his mouth shut about it. First Aid did not take well to jokes.

“Get over here and shut the frag up.”

He threw Ambulon back into the room, closer to the berths than he was comfortable with, and locked the door, fiddling with whatever soundproofing mechanism he had developed for their situation. Ambulon, rubbing his throat, cowered.

“Please,” he whispered, knowing First Aid would hear him, “please don’t.”

First Aid turned to him, popping a miniature medical saw from his fingertip with a clinical ease.

“Traitors don’t get options. Traitors don’t get to _plead._ ”

No one would believe him. He was trapped.

Ambulon stumbled back but there was nowhere to go. He should have known better; this was hardly the first time they’d done this dance. First Aid advanced upon him, the saw whining as it powered up, and by the time he’d crossed the room Ambulon was on his knees already, some weird mixture of prayer and penitence forcing him to bow his helm. There was a cruel laugh above him, soft as bird wings in First Aid’s vocalizer. He grasped Ambulon by the chin, jerking him up to meet his gaze.

“Open wide.”

He wanted to resist but found he couldn’t, the force of his panic drawing his jaws apart and his tongue extended, ready to accept whatever was being given. He should have expected First Aid to take the unexpected option, though, pinching the tip of the thin weave of silicon fibers and forcing him to hold his own hands at bay as they attempted to halt the inevitable. Trailing the pad of the finger with the whirring saw against his cheek, First Aid emitted a small shudder of pleasure through his EM field, coiling around Ambulon’s throat like a vice.

“Tch.”

He spat into Ambulon’s open mouth.

“You give up so easily. No wonder you left the Cons. They would have crushed you.”

Ambulon couldn’t even gag at the taste. His tongue twitched involuntarily, trying to wriggle out of First Aid’s painful pinch. His visor lit up until it was physically painful to look at, but Ambulon could not tear his optics away.

The saw cut into the side of his tongue, severing the appendage with one jerky slice. Ambulon screamed.

First Aid stepped back, watching him jerk and spit energon across the floor. His hands fluttered up to hover around his mouth, as if there was something he could to with those fat fingers that could eliminate the pain. Fruitless, just like every other gesture of self-pity he attempted. First Aid threw his tongue to the ground and crushed it beneath a boot, grimacing at the texture.

“Shut up, would you?”

Ambulon’s wails had settled into high whines already, but at the tone he simpered down further, lips unable to fully close lest he gag on his own blood. First Aid wiped his foot off on Ambulon’s berth and paced a bit, watching him drool into his lap.

“Telling fibs gets you nowhere.”

He spoke in a chiding manner, as if to a lower life form. That was what Ambulon was, though, wasn’t it?

“You’re always getting yourself into these stupid messes. Think someone will bail you out, every time. But they won’t. They don’t care about you, you failure of a drop out.”

He knelt before his victim, Ambulon jumping back against the wall before he could help himself.

“Good thing I’m here to keep you in line. And that’s where you’re going to stay.”

His tone lowered until it was almost imperceptible, but Ambulon was impaled by every syllable yet.

“You’re mine.”

With that he jabbed a fist into Ambulon’s stomach. He wasn’t particularly strong, but Ambulon was weak and skinny and it hurt all the same. Doubling down over himself, he clutched a hand over his mouth as another wave of energon forced out between his lips, streaked pale with his oral solvents and drooling colorfully down his throat. Taking advantage of his prone position, First Aid grabbed the back of his helm and slammed him forwards, putting his dirtied foot on Ambulon’s back to hold him there as he knelt over him. There was little time for Ambulon to prepare himself, mentally or physically, before the painfully familiar burn of a laser scalpel in the center of his spinal plating caused him to cry out again.

First Aid was, above all else, a medic, and his movements reflected that. It was with quiet, methodical care that he began to cut and strip away pieces of Ambulon’s back plating as if they were the wrapping on some particularly tantalizing treat, exposing more of his inner circuitry with each slice. Ambulon kicked out against the wall, hitting his own chin with his knee and making himself gurgle weakly. His own energon was trickling back down his throat and it made him feel ill, doing his best to spit it up between moans of agony. First Aid laughed, kicking him.

“Poor little traitor. Thinks he can get away with turning his back on his fellow breed to go off with the weaker side and get treated like he was worth something.”

He knelt down, shoving Ambulon through his own mess so he could situate himself behind the trembling shell, pressing his knee against Ambulon’s side like a warning blade.

“Stupid little leg. Hiding away from everything you signed on for because you want some pity.”

The scalpel cut into his hindquarters, just above his interface panel, and Ambulon choked twice and then purged his tanks, the colors of his own insides turning his spit to a dull orange swill that bubbled around his hands. He tried to pull away from it instinctually but First Aid held him fast, the scalpel moving down in warning. Desperation clouded him and he retracted his panels as some sort of peace offering, as if that had ever stopped his tormentor before. Still, he knew that degrading himself helped, that it pleased First Aid to seem him whimper and struggle even when he had no will to do so, and the mirthful buzzing that emanated from behind his bleeding back told him this time was no different from the rest.

“Pathetic,” said First Aid, unkindly shoving his thumb into Ambulon’s dry valve with his fingers grazed the closed iris of his spike chamber, “weak, idiot. How did you ever make the grade?”

Ambulon made some sort of assentive sound, vocalizer sluggish and wet with his combined fluids. His throat ached from screaming, as it had for lunar cycles now. Everything ached.

He could hear the scalpel moving, the heat against his exposed back circuitry, and moaned in terror. First Aid dug his thumb in harder, scraping painfully against the frazzled nodes just past his valve entrance, and cut a few tubes beside his spinal column. They were minor injuries, non-essential piping, but the intimacy of the gesture made his systems blaze with confusion and pain, crowding his processor with warnings and alerts. He was so exposed. Ignoring the stench of his bile, Ambulon pressed his face into the floor, curling as tightly as he could.

Fingers twisted inside him, both in his valve and in the wound in his back. He held as still as possible, hoping that some small part of First Aid’s cruel mind would grow bored with his non-resistance. Somewhere near the base of his spine, something was tweaked that made him sick with terror. It was as if his entire body had been stripped, circuitry all bare for whatever intentions the universe had. First Aid was venting hard, thoroughly exhilarated by the violence. It was only by the grace of the length of this nightmare that Ambulon was even able to believe it was real, such a distance between the First Aid he had grown to know and care for back on Delphi and this monster on his back too wide to fully contemplate without going into another panic.

There was a slick clicking beneath his stomach shortly followed by warm pressure against his backside. First Aid dug his fingers into the wires on his back and held them like reins, jerking Ambulon’s hips up to rub his dry valve lips along the length of his throbbing spike. Even in his prone position Ambulon could feel the need and the heat, a dribble of transfluid easing the friction as he was frotted against.

“You’re lucky you have someone like me, traitor,” First Aid hissed, heaving hot air down on him, “you’re not even worth my spike. But I let you have it, because if I don’t teach you your place…”

Without warning he tugged hard into Ambulon’s back, making him screech and buck. His valve swallowed the first few inches of First Aid’s length painfully, the rubbery walls doing their best to expand but lacking the lubricant to protect themselves. First Aid knew it; it was hurting him too, however less so, but he liked that as well, as if it reminded him how lousy a frag Ambulon was, how different they supposedly were. Ambulon knew better. All bots were pink inside, and they all cried like dying turbo rats when they were cornered, and they all bucked and begged like animals when they were held down and rutted by someone with no mercy. He had seen it before, in the ranks. It only served to make the ache more hollow and meaningless. First Aid was just another soldier in the end.

“Thank me,” he panted, forcing himself the rest of the way inside. Ambulon grunted and shifted, growing light and dizzy. The scent of his own sick was making him ill again and everything from his throat to his toes burned.

“Thank me for taking the time to – ahh – to teach you your lesson.”

It was such a pretty moan, a soft, cooing sound, that Ambulon was almost able to trick himself into forgetting the words that caged it.

“Th-thank…”

He trailed off, dry heaving when First Aid thrust once, hard.

“Say it!” First Aid bit out, and this time he was unable to stop himself from continuing his movements, slamming Ambulon’s skinny hips down over his own with his fingers twisted through his wires and tubes. It felt as though each yank would rip his vitals straight out of their casings but, miraculously, terribly, it never did, and the process would begin again as he struggled to assist the motions with his shaking knees and his scrabbling fingers, smeared in energon and puke.

“Thank you-!”

It was all he could manage, his vocalizer clogged with clots of his own tongue. It was enough, for once, and First Aid laughed raggedly as he humped him. His spike wasn’t huge, not really, and Ambulon managed to build up enough lubricant between his own fluids and the surprisingly ample amount of pre-fluid First Aid was producing to keep himself from tearing. It was a practiced flex and while every part of him scraped and screamed he managed to pull himself away from it, the rhythm of their pounding limbs a dull drum in his mind.

First Aid was in line to be the next chief medical officer. Ratchet didn’t like his attitude but his work was undeniably good. Patients liked his soft voice and touch, his covered face managing to seem placid and sweet at all times. He was patient and kind. Back on Delphi, Pharma had even praised him on occasion, before his mood had deteriorated entirely. He wondered, almost idly, if Pharma had known First Aid’s true allegiance, if they had worked together. He wondered if all those times Pharma had snapped at him and smacked his wrists and forced him to do the dirty work they were really in some kind of agreement, a play being put on which he was unknowingly a part of. Ratchet was in that roll now, and he had decided First Aid was good enough to be the next go-to medic on the Lost Light, essentially the power behind the power in a place where foolish injury was so common and widespread.

Ambulon wondered if he could manage to get himself killed before then.

His back was bleeding where a few wires too many had been yanked from their place and the warm trickle curved down around the contours of his frame to warm his belly. First Aid’s thrusts were becoming erratic, his pale voice fraying at the edges in a clear sign of his impending overload. Ambulon felt disassociated from his body, as if this were only a memory or a dream. The fingers tangled in his wiring tore away to encircle is waist, First Aid lying flat against him as he began to mindlessly chase completion. It wasn’t until blunt servos began questing against his seams, as if hoping to grow claws, that he realized First Aid was speaking again, nearly whispering.

“Stupid, ugly, f-flaky turnco-oat-!”

He arched back, raking dull paths of red through Ambulon’s paint across his chest. His overload was fast but violent, the surge of electric discharge, not being shared by his partner, shocked Ambulon’s dry valve enough to hurt, transfluid only burning worse. He convulsed despite himself, spitting another mouthful of drying energon onto his hands. He was not aroused, but First Aid’s runoff was enough to make his calipers clench and ripple.

With another lurch, First Aid pulled out, gasping, slumping against the wall. Ambulon allowed himself to fall, crawling forward almost as quickly and turning to face his attacker, lying limply to one side. First Aid’s visor was a deep blue, almost purple, spike slowly depressurizing between his legs. His entire chest was dripping pink, the results of his clinging clear as a fingerprint. Ambulon, for all his pain, was not very hurt. He could get up. He could run outside into the hallway and beg for help, the evidence of his split plating and chopped tongue proof enough of the lasting abuse.

Instead he lowered his head, like a kicked dog, watching with a dull glaze. First Aid laughed breathlessly.

“That’s right,” a deep, gutter shaking of his vents, “you know your place.”

And Ambulon, cowering there with no pretense of self-preservation, watched First Aid rise to his feet, already extending another tool from his fingers, realized that he did.

 


End file.
